


Meet Your Brother

by shutterbug



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: Boxing & Fisticuffs, Brotherly Bonding, Fights, First Meetings, Gen, Origins, Pre-Canon, Pre-Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 22:54:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16942269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shutterbug/pseuds/shutterbug
Summary: On his first day at H Division, Edmund meets Bennet Drake. In the boxing ring.





	Meet Your Brother

**Author's Note:**

  * For [omg_okimhere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/omg_okimhere/gifts).



> Wishing omg_okimhere a very Happy Birthday! Only one of your prompts would inspire me to take a crack at Bennet for the first time. ;) Thanks for your prompt, and I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Written in response to her prompt: "It was the first snowfall of the year."

“Oi! Quiet down, now! Quiet down!”

Edmund’s head swiveled to the source of the voice that carried across the crowded hall. Around him, policemen of all ranks ceased their chatter and turned toward their commander.

He stood shoulder-to-shoulder in a line of four others. Fred Abberline walked a slow path before them as he addressed the crowd. “Now, we all know for why we are here. Today, we shall decide which of this year’s fresh, new faces will represent our division in the Lafone Cup.”

A murmur of approval rumbled from the crowd.

“You have noticed, no doubt, that one among these faces is a recently promoted Detective Inspector, transferred to us from J Division this very day.”

Edmund forced himself to keep his expression neutral and calm as he peered into the crowd. His first day at H Division had seen the year’s first snowfall. He had made shallow footprints in the snow when he had walked alone to the station house. The cold had pierced the dense wool of his overcoat; the wind had nearly thieved the hat from his head.

But now a thick, heavy cloud of heat filled the room. Edmund inhaled the humid air and tried to dismiss the unease caused by the tremble in his hands.

“But, as we here know, no new man in H Division”—Fred looked toward Edmund out of the corners of his eyes—“is spared this noble rite.”

Edmund heard a shuffle behind him and turned to meet the eyes of a man already at one corner of the ring. He stood shorter than himself and looked as though he weighed a stone less. But the man’s muscles were defined and developed. His face bore the scars and scrapes of previous bouts. Edmund knew he looked upon a practiced—and likely skilled—boxer, and a type of policeman in which Fred saw particular value.

Fred preferred his Inspectors to possess and act upon their intellect and instinct, but he also had a penchant for physical force. Edmund had learned quickly that Fred made liberal use of his brawn. None of the suspects held in their cells on Edmund’s first day had escaped interrogation before suffering a blow to the head.

The memory of one suspect—the crack of his jaw, the snap of his head, and spatter of blood—did little to calm Edmund’s nerves.

“While our newly-minted Detective Inspector Reid will tomorrow be your superior, tonight, he is your equal.” Then Fred took hold of Edmund’s bare arm and wrenched him toward the ring. “And he is to be first.”

A cheer rose up from the crowd as Edmund climbed onto the canvas and found his way to his corner. Fred, their referee, followed him and waved both he and his opponent toward the center.

“Bennet. Edmund.” He nodded to each of them, speaking too low for the spectators to hear. “Meet your brother.”

As Edmund tapped his gloves to Bennet’s, he observed him closely. Downcast eyes. A deeply lined face. A nose that had suffered several fractures. Shoulders that rose and flexed as he shifted from foot to foot. As Bennet stepped backwards, Edmund noticed the tattoo on his arm—the three chevrons of a sergeant.

He kept his eyes on Bennet. Studied him as he moved. Searched for any information that could assist him in this bout. He bounced in place—elbows bent, defenses up. His heart raced. He waited.

Spectators hurled taunts and jeers in their direction.

From the corner, Fred shouted, “One of you had better throw a punch—and soon—or I shall do it for you!”

And, as Edmund’s eyes flickered to Fred, Bennet’s first punch struck the side of his face. He stumbled backwards. A bright, sparkling fog blinded him. With clenched, raised arms, he defended himself for the rest of the round.

He started the second round in better form. Only seconds in, he landed a hook that sent Bennet to the ropes and blood to the canvas. The round ended in his favor, won with a series of jabs and a powerful cross that tired them both.

Adrenaline and exertion made his limbs buzz, as if electrified. He slouched on the stool in his corner and leaned his head against the post, his breaths fast and heavy. His heart pounded his chest with punches of its own.

He lasted for nine rounds.

By then, exhaustion had sapped Edmund of his vigilance and strength. Bennet, yet to tire, quickly forced him to the ropes and delivered a left hook that shocked him. A high-pitched ring exploded in his ears. The cheering crowd sounded as if they had been plunged underwater. Blood filled his mouth. It slid down his throat. He could not spit it out before another blow—a liver strike—made him crumple forward.

He dropped to the canvas and let himself rest there, finished. He heaved with his breaths. Fred’s muddled voice counted somewhere above him, then declared Bennet Drake the winner. Edmund hoped that Fred would now consider this rite satisfactorily undertaken. This was not how he wished to serve his new division.

Edmund winced as Fred slapped his back. “You’re all right, Ed. Come on, now. Up with you.”

Coarse hands slid under him and helped him to his feet. He wavered as his eyes focused. Bennet’s face swam beside him. His arm wrapped around his back and helped him balance as Bennet led him out of the ring.

Later, with his cuts cleaned and face washed, Edmund joined the men of his division at the Bear. His head pulsed with pain. His body ached. He claimed a seat at the bar, relieved to be still.

As he lifted his hand to signal for the barman, a pint slid across the bar and stopped before him. He turned his head to find his benefactor and, in the seat to his left, found Bennet.

“You’ll be in need of that. Sooner rather than later,” Bennet said, then set a shot of whiskey beside Edmund’s ale. “And that. Shot first. Down the gullet.”

Edmund mirrored Bennet as he raised his whiskey in a silent toast. Careful not to tilt his head back too quickly, he downed the shot in one mouthful. He chased it with a sip of ale.

“My thanks,” Edmund said.

“You are not so much a fightin’ man, are you, Mr. Reid?”

He started to smile, but stopped when pain sliced through his split lip. He sighed and shook his head. “No, I am not that. And certainly not like you. Your left hook could level a horse.”

“I have been blessed with some skill, sir.”

They paused to drink, but curiosity compelled Edmund to resume the conversation quickly. “Tell me, Bennet, where did you hone this skill?”

Bennet wiped at his mouth before he replied. “In the company of three older brothers, sir. And many hundreds more in Her Majesty’s Army.”

Edmund raised his eyebrows. Another wave of pain rushed over his face. He drained his glass, then called for another.

“Sir,” Bennet said, his voice quieter. “I am to be your Sergeant, Inspector. And although I know yours to be a superior rank to mine, I must make a request of you.”

Concern rose in Edmund’s chest. “Of course, Sergeant.”

“If we are to copper together, sir, please allow me to do the fightin’ from now on.” His lined face brightened with a smile. “I dare say you are not built for it as I am.”

Despite the sharp throb in his lip, Edmund returned the smile, breathing a laugh. “A fair arrangement, I think, Sergeant,” he said, extending his hand to shake Bennet’s—his fighter, his brother.


End file.
